“Whoever breathes a word of the matter,” cried Hamilton, “ceases from that moment to be a friend of mine. Whose business is it, I should like to know—if I choose to throw that unhappy thing on the fire, who is the loser but myself? What satisfaction can it be to any one to get that boy into such a mess?”
As Hamilton spoke he disdainfully flung the poem on the table, and drew the fender, contents and all, on the floor with his fidgety foot.
“The matter comes to this,” said Reginald: “it appears that either Louis must be exposed, or Frank suffer for his delinquencies. It is not, certainly, fair to Frank, and mustn't be, Hamilton, though Louis is my brother.”
Hamilton cast a bewildered look on Frank.
“True, I had really forgotten Frank. It must be so, then,” he said, in a lower tone.
“No, Hamilton, no!” said Frank; “I won't have you tell of poor Louis. I don't care a bit about Fudge's suspicions now, you all know I am clear. Don't say a word about it, I beg.”
“Frank, you're a fine fellow!” exclaimed Hamilton, grasping his hand; “but I don't think it is quite fair.”
“Nonsense!” said Frank, gayly; “I owe him something for relieving me from my situation; and, besides,” he added, more gravely, “Louis deserves a little forbearance from us: none of us would have done what he did, last half.”
“You are right,” said Hamilton, warmly; “none of us would, but all of us have forgotten that lately; even Ferrers, who ought, at least, to have befriended him, has turned the cold shoulder to him. I feel quite indignant with Ferrers.”
“Ferrers had a little reason to doubt him,” said Trevannion.